


Utopia

by lorannah



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-15
Updated: 2010-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:46:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorannah/pseuds/lorannah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war brings meetings under unusual circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Utopia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VegaOfTheLyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VegaOfTheLyre/gifts).



> Massive thanks to Melodious B for her excellent beta skills - all remaining mistakes are my own.

**October 1916**

 ****

There was always a moment just before the first casualty arrived - when the distant crackle of guns sounded too close, but still far away – that felt like peace.

It was a moment of fear and deep breaths and staring at the tent entrance, waiting. Like the pause before stepping out of a carriage in a different life. It was separate somehow from the daily routine, from the slow destructive wait and from the madness that would follow. Everything was prepared; everything was as ready as it could be. Everything except Sybil.

She never quite felt ready. Never quite finished. But perhaps that was normal.

Sometimes this moment could last for an hour or more; tonight it seemed to be over in minutes, and then the first man was being carried inside and there was no time to think anymore. With a battle on, it was always like this – too many bodies with too many hurts, and not enough time. All their focus bent on getting from one man to another. The hopeful and the hopeless.

Hours later, the endless string of bodies finally eased, but Sybil was still so lost in concentration, in getting from one to another, that for a moment she didn’t recognise Branson.

The recognition was filled with sharp edges – catching at her, cutting her deeply with hope and joy and regret and terror. He was barely conscious, writhing in pain from a wound in his arm and covered in blood, although so was Sybil and none of it was her own.

It had been two years since Sybil had last seen him. There had been a strange, tense goodbye, neither able to express what they were thinking. She had not imagined then that this would be how she would see him again, though it would be untrue to pretend that, since she had arrived in France, she hadn’t dreamed of it happening. Just not like this.

“Sybil?” Doctor Williams asked wearily. Something must have shown in her face.

As he said her name, Branson’s eyes flashed open, staring at the ceiling for a moment and then settling back on her. She had almost forgotten the colour of them. The lightest blue. Shakily he raised a hand, brushing his fingers along her cheek. His fingers were rough and sticky with blood. It was the first time she could remember him touching her without his gloves on.

“My lady?” For a second his thumb rested against her lips and then with a groan his hand dropped and he sank back into unconsciousness.

“Sybil, do you know this man?”

She nodded, unable to say anything more. Doctor Williams stared at her, a brief assessment. “Go to bed.”

“I should stay.” Sybil reached for Branson’s hand almost instinctively and then, catching herself, she drew her hand self-consciously to her side, clutching at her bloody apron.

“It’s a shallow wound; he’ll be fine.”

“But the others-”

“Are all but done. That was an order, Sister. God knows I’ll need you fresh in the morning; who can say when we’ll be called on again.”

Reluctantly, she turned away and with unsteady footsteps and her heart still pounding, made for her cot.

****

Light was just starting to creep into the tent. The dull grey of 5am. Branson had never expected to know the light well enough to tell the time, but life brought strange lessons. He flexed his arm again, wincing, though he’d had worse pains.

“You’ll mend,” the Doctor told him as he washed his hands in already filthy water. He paused briefly. “You’ll need to head back to your battalion, there’s not enough room here.”

He said it apologetically, and Branson tried his best to give him a grin. “There never is.”

“Don’t we all know it?”

Branson was already half way across the tent when the Doctor spoke again.

“ Lady Sybil is though the door to the left. Sleeping.”

Branson stopped, feeling his heart still for a second. He’d thought he had dreamed her; he had before. No wonder the Doctor had looked at him so strangely the first time he heard him speak, he must have been expecting a toff. He was still watching him now, and Branson was no fool – this was not permission, it was merely an acknowledgement that here the rules were relaxed here, and he had better things to do than to enforce them.

“Do you have writing materials? I should write her a goodbye.”

The Doctor quickly located a pen and paper, and his expression, as he handed them over, was little short of pity.

“Perhaps it is for the best.”

It felt like an infinitely long time before he could think what to write, and he wasn’t certain whether it was the reluctance of his hand or his long divorce from words that held him back. By the time the letter, too brief by far, was finished, the Doctor had moved on to a more needy patient and all but forgotten him.

Branson moved quietly and uncertainly towards the door, a mere flap of canvas that was the best one could do for privacy here. Pushing it aside, he stepped through the opening and let it fall softly behind him. There were several cots in the room, moth-eaten rickety things, but only one was occupied. Sybil was still in her uniform, one cheek pillowed on her arm. The other cheek had a streak of dried blood on it, and he had a vague feeling that it had been his fingers that had left it there. She was skinnier than he remembered, and paler, and her hair was dishevelled and she was beautiful.

It made him ache to see her and ache more to have to leave her. But it wasn’t as if he could stay.

****

Sybil felt her own sharp intake of breath as she woke, the sudden startlement from sleep – but then, that wasn’t unusual; she had all but forgotten what it was like to drift awake. What she hadn’t expected was to find Branson in front of her, guiltily clutching a letter.

“I’m sorry I woke you, my lady,” he said as he stepped forward, formally holding out the letter. “I only meant to leave this for you.”

She took it unthinkingly, feeling oddly caught between how much had changed and how much hadn’t -this could almost have been a moment at Downton. She was uncomfortably aware of what a mess she was in.

Branson turned to leave.

“No, please. Wait,”

He turned to look at her again.

“Will you not stay and speak awhile?”

“If you wish, my lady.”

“Please don’t call me that; call me Sybil. Sit with me.” She curled her feet up beside her on the cot and beckoned for him to take a seat at the other end. Hesitating for a second, he did as she asked.

He was only inches from her and it was both too close and too far. She felt like they were delineated by the space between them, by the ways they were not touching. He looked older, more worn, and still pale and bloodless. His smile was gone and it made her homesick to see it missing.

“I didn’t expect to find you in a place like this,” he said, not quite looking at her.

“I couldn’t stay at home. I had to do something.”

“I know, but I thought Lord Crawley would have stopped you.”

It took her a second to gather herself. “He’d already gone. He thought it was his duty. I think it all but broke Bates’ heart that he couldn’t follow him this time.”

Tom laughed softly.

“He died in January, my father.” It came out in a rush; it was still the only way to speak the words out loud, as if saying them was like going over the top, and could only be done in a blind hurry. She closed her eyes so that she could not see the inevitable expression of pity.

“He was a good man,” Tom told her, and she could only nod, forcing her eyes back open. “How is your mother?”

“She... survives. Mary and Edith take care of her and the house and grandmother, when they are not arguing. And Anna and Mrs. Hughes help, of course. They all survive.”

“And Matthew is the master of Downton after all.”

This time it’s Sybil’s turn to laugh, though it is still a little more hysterical than she would have wished. “Matthew asked me to marry him; I think he feared we would lose Downton if anything happened.”

“What was your answer?”

“I told him that, given he was still in love with my sister, I felt that a marriage between us would be a little awkward.”

“And did Mary take him back?”

“They are circling each other awkwardly, in letters. They’ll marry one day, I’m sure.”

It was nice to talk of Downton again, to speak of anything other than the endless progress of the war and the steady march of death. Sitting here with Tom, it was easier to spin fantasies. To imagine, even briefly, that he had snuck into her room to discuss the latest gossip or to share the newest pamphlet. And that outside waited summer and strawberries and garden parties and laughter. Once upon a time there was girl, and she lived in a grand castle with her two sisters and they were the luckiest girls in all the land.

“Do you know, I still think of that dress of yours sometimes,” Tom told her, interrupting the thought, “Scandalising the county. I saw Thomas, last year, working in a field hospital. There was no time to talk.”

She smiled. Hearing that someone you knew still lived, even a year past, was a victory. A small one, but still a victory.

“Have you heard anything of William?” She asked eagerly. “We have lost sight of him.”

He shook his head and the victory died inside her. They exchanged familiar looks.

“It might mean nothing,” he told her. “The war is on many fronts.”

“I heard from Gwen,” Sybil said, hoping she could regain the lighter tone of earlier. “Her company closed, she’s working in a munitions factory now. It’s one way to get jobs for women.”

“They certainly can’t claim you all inferior now.”

“Nor you. Though I wonder if that could ever be worth all this,” Sybil shook her head lightly, trying to dispel the thought. “I always thought that you and Gwen were sweet on each other.”

Tom met her eyes, holding them firmly. “She was a lovely girl, better than I deserved. But I only ever had eyes for someone else.”

Sybil knew she could play the game, could pretend that she didn’t know he meant her, try to guess who it could have been but she’s too tired and too drawn out for that now. Instead she nodded slightly, still holding his gaze. Tom leaned in slowly but, as she wondered if she should let him kiss her, he stopped. For a moment he smiled, though it was only a poor shadow of the one in her memories.

“I should go,” he said standing. “I am needed back with my battalion.”

“No - they can’t send you back there,” Sybil leapt to her feet, reaching for him. “Your arm.”

Her hand had landed on his chest, where his shirt collar was still undone, fingers resting against his flesh, leaving them standing close. She had touched so many men now, but never like this - never with such a jolt of joy that she thought she would explode, longing for him to hold her.

“It will heal,” he told her, taking a step backwards, and breaking the contact, “The Doctor has dismissed me. Goodbye.”

For a second he hesitated, looking as if for once, just once, he would say her name but then with a nod he turned and was gone. Sybil watched as he walked away and then on a moment’s whim, she riffled through her pack, pulling out a battered book and hurried after him. He had stopped outside and paused in the entrance, and she could see his breathing, deep and unsteady, his hands clenched by his sides. Hearing her coming, he turned and she caught the briefest glimpse of his expression – bleak and terrible – before he schooled it again.

“Please - I want you to take this. I’ve read it too many times.”

She thought for a moment that he might refuse it but at last, taking it reverentially from her, he smiled, a true smile, and she watched as he ran his fingers along the cracked letters on the front. UTOPIA. When he spoke his voice was tight. “Thank you.”

 “You’ll have to come back to Downton one day to sign it back into the ledger,” she feels foolish and naked in the cold light of dawn, shivering. “Tom, will you come and find me when all this is done?”

“Yes, my lady.”

He brushed one finger along her cheek and then, turning, walked slowly away into the growing mist.


End file.
